


colourful_bodies

by LeFezWearingHusky



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Cyberpunk AU, Eventual relationship, M/M, dystopian au, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFezWearingHusky/pseuds/LeFezWearingHusky
Summary: >//everything is predetermined.>//destiny rules this dystopia.>//except for one.>//he is the embodiment of talent, the one true Ultimate.>//he is the synthetic, perfect Hope we have been striving towards.>//his fate lies outside destiny.>//for he will one day rule the world.[danganronpa_au//eventual_kuzuhina//oc]





	1. chapter_one//spliced_beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Well, first and foremost, I'd like to thank you for taking an interest in this (honestly pretty bizarre) story of mine. If you've ever read any of my fics on FF.net, you'd know that my specialties are rarepairs and ridiculous AUs. This story is no exception, as you might have inferred from the tags.  
> There are a couple of OCs in this fic, just to bear in mind, but they're part of the setting more than anything else and they don't really take centre stage.  
> Anyway, I won't tell you anything else about the story, lest there be spoilers. Just bear with me; this is one hell of a wild AU.  
> Oh, and a quick heads-up; the story so far is fairly tame in terms of its content, but that may of course change in later chapters. Smut, character death and non-con are all possibilities for the future, folks.  
> Feel free to drop a comment to let you know what I thought. I'm always eager to hear constructive criticism.~  
> With that being said, I'll shut up, so enjoy!  
> Stay hopeful~  
> -Le Fez-Wearing Husky

**chapter_one//spliced_beginnings**

 

**[access:archive_14//suzume_kamukura//entry_01]**

 

_ This world is hopeless. _

 

_ It doesn’t even try to hide it. _

 

_ Ultimates and Reserves… The talented and the talentless… the rulers and their subjects. Or rather, the scientists and their lab rats. _

 

_ It’s your typical cliche dystopia. The strong take advantage of the weak, etcetera, etcetera. Everyone’s heard it before. _

 

_ As long as such a duality exists, there is no hope for progress; for, as advanced as we Ultimates are, the core functioning of our society is dependent on Reserves. _

 

_ It’s pathetic, don’t you agree? _

 

_ And that’s why I’m going to change it. _

 

_ That’s why, as an Ultimate, it is my sole responsibility to change it. _

 

_ But, regardless. None of the higher-ups suspect a thing. And our first subject is developing nicely. _

 

_ I’m anxious to meet him, but it would be reckless to rush things at this stage. _

 

_ We have nicknamed him “Izuru”. It’s a rather more hopeful name than GMRS-001, don’t you think? _

 

_...Izuru is also my cat’s name, but I don’t suppose you really need to know that... _

 

_...Ah. _

 

_ There I go again. Talking to computers as if they’re humans. _

 

_ I can’t exactly be blamed when their performance is *this* convincing, though, can I? _

 

_ Well, ultimately all of us are just piles of code. That is our true form. _

 

_ Abstract notions like humanity are illusions. We must prove that to the world. _

 

_ But humans will only listen if they are presented with some sort of godlike authority. It’s pitiful… the majority of the human race even lack the simple capacity to think for themselves. _

 

_ Therefore we must create a being that is perfectly inhuman. A god born from humans… now that would be a true symbol of hope for our species. _

 

_ And what then? Well, indeed. _

 

_ That is something we should all consider. _

 

_--_--_

 

The gusty zephyrs stirred out a mournful elegy as they scattered detritus against the rotting brickwork.

 

Technology from ages past gathered at a funeral for the departed future of the town. Clustering and coalescing, they mourned for their past selves, their unbroken wholes, their futures.

 

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu shivered in the dead winds of the phantom town. Of course, he shivered internally; concealing weakness was a yakuza’s second nature. Without his nonchalant facade, he could easily die.

 

Not that anyone could touch him in his current position. But, as heir to the most powerful yakuza clan in the country, one could never be too careful.

 

Fuyuhiko flicked his tongue off the top of his mouth and glanced at his watch impatiently. He was somewhat used to tardiness amongst dealers; at the best of times, they were lazy and narcissistic, always trying to put one over, even when they knew their customer was  _ a fucking yakuza.  _ It seemed they were incapable of learning that fact. 

 

Then again, they were but mere Reserves, so stupidity was to be expected.

 

But that notion didn’t suppress Fuyuhiko’s urge to separate a fair few fingers from the hand that brought him the goods.  _ Go on and try injecting yourself without any thumbs, pigshit. _

 

Then again, this was a dealer who - despite his inexcusable tardiness - had shown unflinching loyalty to the Kuzuryuu family through the years. If he were to lose him as a contact, Fuyuhiko could be certain to be the next one to lose fingers as soon as he arrived home.

 

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Fuyuhiko felt the air suddenly shift around him. He turned, just in time to see a slouched figure wade out of the detritus.

 

He was obviously high, with pupils of an almost comical size, sunken cheeks and ragged eyebrows. His unruly hair was jammed underneath a faded headband and splattered with various fluids that Fuyuhiko could not distinguish by sight alone. The man was a shell. A pseudo-human. A being rejected by nature.

 

A Reserve.

 

Fuyuhiko felt the usual grimace stretch across his features. “I’m not playing with you this time, bastard. I’m sick of this fucking slapstick routine. So just tell me straight and name your price,” he spat.

 

The man’s face broke into a humourless grin. “‘Kay, okay, sonny. Better keep your eyepatch on, ey? You get me the doosh and you get the goosh. Jus’ take care o’ mah little snaps, will ya? They’s hand-picked.”

 

Just being around the man made Fuyuhiko want to regurgitate his breakfast. “Fine, bastard. I haven’t got all day, y’know?”

 

“His Excellency has spoken,” the man chuckled derisively. “Well, it’s th’ usual rate; 300,000 digits a snapbag. No more, no less.” He held up a crumpled paper bag that was more faded and stained than his headband. “I even snuck in a couple cookies for the little prince - free of charge, ‘course.”

 

“Don’t patronise me.” Fuyuhiko’s gravelly tone contradicted his broiling emotions.  _ Cookies?! Where did he even hear about that?  _ It had been a lifetime struggle for him to keep the fact of his sweet tooth a secret. 

 

Ignoring the dealer’s off-putting cackle, Fuyuhiko pressed his right thumb against the palm of his left hand. The device embedded within immediately flared to life in a series of technicolour holograms.

 

The yakuza heir deftly manipulated the icons and the virtual keyboard until a prompt appeared, to which he immediately gave authorisation. He then closed the fingers of his left hand with brisk finality, causing the holograms to dissipate as though blown apart by the wind.

 

“It’s done, you bastard. Now hand it over.” Fuyuhiko held out his hand expectantly.

 

With slow and arrogant deliberation, the dealer placed the paper bag in Fuyuhiko’s palm, his marbled grin showing each and every shade of decay.

 

After a quick check to ensure the bag’s contents were genuine, Fuyuhiko gave the man one last, curt nod and made to turn around.

 

“Oh, wait there a minute, sonny. I jus’ ‘membered… there’s a favour I wanted to ask of you.”

 

Fuyuhiko’s body tensed, his fingers tightening around the bag of drugs. “A favour?!” he spat, almost incredulous. “Is it too much for your shitbag head to process that I might not have the time to fucking entertain you?!”

 

“Who said anythin’ ‘bout entertainment?” The dealer shrugged, a display of his typical ignorant nonchalance. “It won’t cost you any o’ your time, trust me.”

 

“Why should I even listen to you? What am I supposed to get out of it?” Fuyuhiko demanded, never once shifting his gaze from the taller man.

 

The man cackled again. “Jus’ a little ti’bit. Migh’ be juicy for some, not for others. But I know you can use it. Migh’ even bring your family back from the brink, ey?”

 

“The fuck are you talking about?!” Fuyuhiko spluttered.  _ He can’t possibly have heard of  _ that…  _ Unless, of course, one of Dad’s bastard lackeys got drunk and blabbed. _

 

“Jus’ trus’ me, sonny. After all, we’s one an’ the same, no?”

 

Fuyuhiko’s frown tightened even further. “You and I are nothing alike. You’re nothing but Reserve scum, and - “

 

“- You’re an Ultimate,” the dealer finished. “Or so your dee-’n’-ay says. But we’re both livin’ in a diff’rent world, ain’t we? I’m a Reserve, so they’s say it’s mah destiny to drop out of society, tah have to break the law just to get by. But your family are all Ultimates. So what’s it mean whe’ an Ultimate breaks the law? By society’s def’nition, he ain’t an Ultimate no longer.”

 

“Don’t lump me in with you.” Fuyuhiko spoke in an intimidating whisper. “Ultimate or not, I will always be above you, understand?!”

 

To the young yakuza’s irritation, the dealer didn’t seem in the least bit fazed. “Sure, say whatever you wan’, sonny. Won’ change the truth. But, anyways, you might wanna check ou’ Mirai Inn. Bar over on the nice par’ o’ town. You migh’ just ha’en to like what ya fin’ there.”

 

Before Fuyuhiko could reply to that, the man had already gone, melting back into the decaying filth that he had emerged from.

 

Fuyuhiko sighed irritably, glancing up at the rooftops above him. Beyond the railings to his left, a silent shadow stirred, crimson eyes blinking as a head turned. Despite what had just transpired, Fuyuhiko managed to smile.

  
“Let’s go home, huh, Peko?”


	2. chapter_two//chance_mutation

**chapter_two//chance_mutation**

 

**[access:archive_14//suzume_kamukura//entry_02]**

 

_ Occasionally, just once in a while, I lose all faith in my colleagues. _

 

_ As a member of an esteemed line of revolutionary geneticists, I am entirely used to facing the mediocrity of others. But I have never once doubted the sanity of my subordinates, or at least not to this extent. _

 

_ My vice research coordinator, Yuzuki-kun (or Lieutenant, as she jokingly refers to herself) has been consistently breaching the boundaries of asinine since we first met over two years ago. Honestly. It really should be considered a crime that the Ultimate Neuroscientist is such an absolute airhead. _

 

_ Of course, her scientific knowledge is sound, and her practical skills leave nothing to be desired. But perhaps being raised in a laboratory amongst a couple of half-sentient AI and the preserved brains of a thousand former experimental subjects has had some impact on her ability to make social judgements. _

 

_ Last week I had had the misfortune to be struck by a bad case of flu. There’s been an epidemic going around recently; it seems the virus has recently evolved some resistance to even the genetic immunity held by Ultimates. Of course, the Reserve population has long been plagued by it, considering their inferior makeup. _

 

_ Regardless, I was quarantined away from the lab for a week. And once I was able to get back, what did I find? _

 

_ In my absence, Yuzuki-kun had managed to ruin everything. _

 

_ Well, not quite everything, I suppose; in some respects, I was pleasantly surprised. Izuru was in even better condition than I had left him in, proving that Yuzuki-kun can at least still be trusted to keep a project viable. _

 

_ My issue, however, was with the most recent addition to the research team. _

 

_ Nagito Komaeda, he calls himself. Suffice it to say that my first impressions of him were not at all desirable. Lanky and clearly poorly maintained; he had the poster look of a street-dwelling Reserve who spends his nights in the city sewers. _

 

_ His demeanour seems amiable enough, though I find that I can’t trust him at all. His story, as told by Yuzuki-kun, should be immediately dubious, and I am honestly flabbergasted that no-one else in the team decided to point that crucial detail out. _

 

_ He had turned up at Yuzuki-kun’s front door one evening, claiming to be a local journalist who had heard about her reputation as a scientist; particularly her work in the field of personality modification. Being the gullible idiot that she is, Yuzuki-kun answered each of Komaeda’s questions eagerly. However, when Komaeda let slip that he knew about our supposedly confidential project, Yuzuki-kun understandably demanded to know just what he was playing at. _

 

_ Less understandable was what she did next. After hearing out Komaeda’s no-doubt fabricated tales of having hacked the database out of simple curiosity - instead of tracing his claims, destroying the evidence and ensuring Komaeda would never speak again - Yuzuki-kun merely accepted his half-truths. _

 

_ Sometimes I wonder if there truly is a single shred of logic in that woman’s brain. All she did was take a scan of Komaeda’s intracranial activity and - such is her faith in those elaborate machines of hers - immediately decided that there was “no way Komaeda-san could ever possibly be lying”. _

 

_ A zero-percent margin of error? I wish I could say that she had been joking. But, sadly, it seems Yuzuki-kun’s ego knows no bounds. _

 

_ As for this Komaeda character, I have several main issues with him, the first and foremost being the method by which he supposedly hacked our database. Only military-grade AI would have the ability to pull off such a stunt on our encryptions, and our background check on Komaeda revealed there was no way he could have ever possibly had access to such a thing. _

 

_ Of course, there is the possibility that he stole an AI from the military - but even on the off chance that that *was* in fact what happened, it doesn’t exactly make him any more trustworthy. _

 

_ No… I feel more as though someone in our research team ratted out to him. Someone among us deliberately sought out this person and told him everything he needed to know to get on our side. _

 

_ Why…? Well, that remains a mystery. Komaeda clearly has no special skills that could potentially be of any use to us; and that fact is even more troubling. This whole situation reeks of ulterior motives. _

 

_ But speaking of Komaeda’s lack of skill… That is in fact my second issue with him. _

 

_ He’s an Ultimate without any skills. _

 

_ It’s a phenomenon I’ve read about before. It’s a rare occurrence, but it can happen that a child who is born to Reserve parents happens to have inherited a genome that follows the same basic pattern as any Ultimate genome. Such individuals are known as “pseudo-Ultimates”, though the exact term - and indeed anything relating to their existence - is disputed. _

 

_ Theoretically, such a thing is possible, albeit extremely unlikely. I suppose such an individual would be counted as lucky. Which would explain why Komaeda keeps constantly commenting on how lucky he is. _

 

_ I wouldn’t say that Komaeda is particularly difficult to talk to, but he can speak so easily about things that anyone else would find hard to acknowledge. _

 

_ He takes almost every opportunity to put himself down, remarking on how clumsy and useless he is before turning his awestruck eyes upon me and proclaiming, “I am truly honoured, Kamukura-san, that you would continue to even stand the sight of someone like me in a place as wonderful and innovative as this very laboratory.” _

 

_ He seems overly impressed by everything that we do, and he positively beams with admiration every time we talk about our goal to restore the world’s hope. He is overjoyed even when we assign him the task of cleaning out the animals’ litter trays. _

 

_ He isn’t a nuisance and he gets the job done, but even so, just interacting with him is infuriating. And sometimes, on occasion, rather disturbing. _

 

_ I would still rather not have him around, but every time I bring up the subject, Yuzuki-kun insists he can be trusted. And without unanimity from the team, I can’t directly oust another team member.  _

 

_ What would it take for Yuzuki-kun to finally see sense? _

 

_ God, if you happen to be out there, please tell me if such a thing exists. _

 

_--_--_

 

_ … _

 

_ Can you hear me, Hinata-kun? _

 

_ … _

 

_...Yes, that’s right. That’s your name. Hajime Hinata. _

 

_ You are the beginning. You are the future. _

 

_ Please, recognise it within yourself. Don’t give up. Don’t back down. _

 

_ Don’t despair. _

 

_ Everything will be all right. _

 

_ Just remember your name. _

 

_ Go on. Say it now. _

 

_ “My name is…” _

 

_ … _

 

_--_--_

 

...Mirai Inn, huh.

 

What a joke.

 

Fuyuhiko stood silently, his grimace deepening with each second he stared at the nondescript building before him.

 

Considering this was the commercial district, he had been expecting a trendy sort of bar, bedecked with neon and glitz and melodrama. He had been expecting snobbish youths and overzealous students, each one of them far too eager to prove their talents to the rest. He had been expecting a full deluge of Genomic Eugenics personalities; each one abnormally unique and tailored to fit society’s precise ideals. The cream of the crop; the Ultimate Ultimates.

 

Fuyuhiko avoided these places as a general rule. There was usually no reason for him to go; there were barely any business opportunities there. His crowd and this crowd had no reason to mix.

 

He had found out about this life involuntarily. During his high school days, even whilst making a conscious effort to distance himself from others, one could never fully escape the crowd gossip. That had given him enough information - in fact perhaps too much information - to picture what these people were generally like.

 

But this place lacked the vigour and energy, the obnoxious fervour, the hopeful ignorance and the pseudo-banter. It was clean, tranquil, monochrome. And it seemed empty.

 

Fuyuhiko stole a glance at Peko, whose neutral expression remained intact. She, however, seemed somewhat perplexed by this building, just as he did; it wasn’t hard to notice how inconsistent it seemed to be with its surroundings.

 

“You certain this is the right place…?” Fuyuhiko muttered in an attempt to sate his uncertainty.

 

“...It must be,” Peko stated conclusively after a slight pause. “The satellite map should be correct, and the sign above proves this.” With just the slightest gesture, the swordswoman indicated the illuminated characters above the front doorway that spelled  _ Mirai Inn. _

 

Fuyuhiko sighed. It all seemed to be in rather bad taste.

 

Regardless, his curiosity wouldn’t let him fixate on anything else. Deciding to get this farce over with, the yakuza heir pushed the double doors open authoritatively.

 

Beyond was a room that seemed to be generated from data, from mathematically constructed archetypes that clumsily attempted to mimic the real thing. Everything, from the tables to the wallpaper, was placed with artificial coordination. The room was a set piece. A fabrication.

 

Fuyuhiko grimaced, his small body tensed in anticipation. Things could only go wrong from here; he could feel it intuitively, like sparks colliding in the atmosphere.

 

The room was completely empty, but something - someone - was watching. Undoubtedly.

 

And then, the entire room  _ clicked. _

 

“Young master -” Peko abruptly called in alarm, clearly also having sensed the imminent danger, but before she could say or do anymore, the floor began to vibrate.

 

Fuyuhiko knew that the source of this abrupt shuddering wasn’t an earthquake or anything of the sort; like everything else in the room, there was a faint mechanical aspect to it. It was controlled, precise, just like the arrangement of the glasses behind the bar. All performed according to some sort of arcane program.

 

Just as suddenly as it had started, the quaking rapidly stopped. And then, twin doors at the back of the room  _ pinged  _ open.

 

Immediately, Peko pushed herself between Fuyuhiko and the door, her hand coming up to touch the top of her sword bag as though she meant to draw the bamboo blade on their invisible enemy.

 

Of course, it was all just a bluff. Despite being a kendo master, Peko rarely fought with swords, instead using the guns concealed about her waist. Fuyuhiko had always admired that particular tactic of hers; using her reputation as the Ultimate Swordswoman against her opponents.

 

The air was silent for several drawn-out seconds before Peko began stalking towards the door, hand never once leaving the sword bag. When Fuyuhiko attempted to follow her, Peko waved him back urgently. “Please, young master, I urge you to stay back so I can check for danger.”

 

It was a well-worn line. Fuyuhiko’s fists clenched and unclenched in irritation. If there was one problem he had with Peko, it was her overly self-sacrificial attitude. She always insisted on entering potentially dangerous situations before he could, despite knowing Fuyuhiko had more than enough fighting experience to handle sneak attacks on his own.

 

Instead, he merely watched in anticipation as Peko crossed the threshold of the door; first her head, then her upper body. Her figure twisted as she glanced left and right, before emerging and training her crimson irises on Fuyuhiko.

 

“Young master, the way is clear,” she announced.

 

“Yeah, you don’t have to scout out every single area for an ambush before I enter it,” Fuyuhiko muttered. “Next time, don’t bother. That’s an order.”

 

Peko looked as if she were about to protest, but Fuyuhiko snapped back before she could. “Stop acting like you owe me something. You don’t owe me anything.” It came out slightly harsher than the young yakuza had intended.

 

Fuyuhiko could tell by Peko’s silence that she disagreed. Her red orbs simmered with concern as they fell upon Fuyuhiko’s right eye; or rather, the eyepatch that covered it.

 

“Whatever. Don’t worry about it. We’ve gotta…” He glanced momentarily over his shoulder, noticing that the front door had inexplicably disappeared. “...We’ve gotta keep moving.”

 

Peko nodded, but her concerned gaze did not once move from Fuyuhiko as they made their way towards the open door. 

 

_--_--_

 

Beyond the door was a corridor, near as nondescript as the outside facade. Their footsteps traced muffled echoes as they walked abreast, perfectly synchronised.

 

_ Tch. So this  _ was _ a trap after all. Just what was that crazy dealer up to? _

 

His behaviour yesterday should have tipped him off to some sort of ulterior motive. That egregious knowing tone he had used hadn’t been apparent during Fuyuhiko’s previous meetings with him. Perhaps the dealer had been playing dumb this entire time, all so he could eventually get the yakuza out on his own.

 

_ But I’m not alone, am I? _

 

He had Peko. There was no way the bastard was clever enough to anticipate that. Their professional relationship, after all, was strictly confidential.

 

And even disregarding that… it seemed the dealer didn’t understand what it meant to go up against a Kuzuryuu.

 

Fuyuhiko allowed himself a smirk in spite of his anticipation.  _ That bastard’s going to wish he had just shut up and drank his cyanide by the time we get to him. _

 

“Well, well! If it ain’t Kuzuryuu-san!”

 

Fuyuhiko stopped at the sound, immediately aware of Peko tensing up beside him.

 

The corridor had opened out into a wide, low chamber. The room seemed to be an odd hybrid of a laboratory and a bar area, with sparse, sterile walls and plush-velvet stools clustered around raised tables. Everything was almost obscenely white, but unlike the pseudo-bar outside, it did show some signs of usage; faded spillages streaked along the floor, faint scratches on the surfaces of tables. The bar stood against the far curve of the room, its mahogany decor sticking out like a blister against the stark whiteness of the rest of the room. A stylised logo, containing the kanji for  _ “mirai” _ , was embossed above the bar area.

 

And there, sitting with his legs crossed, his stance an epitome of nonchalant egotism, was the dealer.

 

“You…!” Fuyuhiko pulled his pistol out without a moment’s hesitation, instantly flicking off the safety as he aimed it at the other man. “Just what’d you drag me here for?!”

 

The man chuckled, not even so much as flinching as he raised his palms. “Why’nt ya calm down, sonny? I ain’t gonna hurt one o’ my mos’ loyal clients, now am I?”

 

Fuyuhiko’s finger pressed against the trigger. His eye fixed on the dealer’s, blind to everything else around him. He was deaf to the thunder of blood in his ears.

 

“Explain everything. Now.”

 

The man shrugged. “Fine by me. So long’s you understand I can’t just tell ya everythin’, ya know?”

 

“Don’t make excuses.” Fuyuhiko felt his body stiffening by the second.

 

After another egregious chuckle, the dealer glanced at them both in turn and spread his arms in welcome. “Then I welcome you, Kuzuryuu-san and Pekoyama-san, to th’ one-’n’-only Mirai Inn.” He placed a hand over his heart in an uncharacteristically formal gesture. “As your host an’ the proprietor, I wish you a good evenin’ with friends and booze aplenty.” The tone was melodramatic; it seemed inconceivable that the man hadn’t read those words off a script.

 

_ Pekoyama…?! So he knows her name.  _ Still, Fuyuhiko knew that was the least of his worries at the current time. “Proprietor? How can you be the proprietor? Don’t make me laugh, bastard.” Fuyuhiko’s fingers coiled even tighter around the firearm he held. “Reserves can’t own property.”

 

“Well, I suppose I don’  _ officially  _ own this place… but it was entrusted to me by a group o’ individuals. Called themselves the Future Foundation. Bunch o’ idealistic geniuses, prob’bly complete nutters. Said they’s were gonna end the world and bring it back anew.” He laughed. “An’ I wasn’t gon’ ta argue with a bunch o’ psychos like that, so here I am.”

 

“That doesn’t answer fucking anything!” Fuyuhiko bellowed, his hand now visibly shaking. He gritted his teeth as he felt Peko place a hand on his shoulder.

 

The dealer sighed. “There ain’t much else I can tell ya. All I know’s I was given this place to look after, I dunno why, was never told. They’s were always too vague. An’ then, just a week ago, I got sent somethin’ interestin’.” The man leaned in towards the two of them. “Said it was the ‘Remnants o’ the Future Foundation’. Now, I can assure you that I never did once open tha’ package. But like I said, it migh’ just be useful to ya.”

 

_ Remnants… does that mean…?  _ “So… this Future Foundation you’re talking about… no longer exists?”

 

The man shrugged. “Who knows? They jus’ sent me that package, haven’t said anythin’ since. Could all just be a ruse, ‘course. But I’ve still got this place, so my guess is they’s still need me here.” He grinned. “Somethin’ tells me this is just the beginning.”

 

Fuyuhiko managed to steady his hand. “This package… why are you giving it to me? Don’t think I’m going to fall for something so fucking obvious.”

 

“Well, you’d know how ta use it best,” the man replied. “I mean, if I was gi’en somethin’ that important, I’d wanna hand it over to somebody who’d actually use it, right? Jus’ like anythin’ else.”

 

Peko’s hand was still on Fuyuhiko’s shoulder. “Young master, I believe he is telling the truth. This does not seem to be a trap.”

 

Fuyuhiko found himself reluctantly agreeing. As much as he wanted to distrust the dealer’s words, nothing in them suggested a lie. He didn’t seem overly eager for Fuyuhiko to take the package, nor did he seem to care exactly what Fuyuhiko did with it. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be carrying out his duties.

 

Plus, Peko was a good reader of people during these situations. If anything, Fuyuhiko trusted her judgement.

 

Reluctantly, Fuyuhiko lowered his gun, grimacing as he once again watched the dealer’s mouth split open like a rotten fruit.

 

“Exit’s thataway, sonny,” he proclaimed, gesturing towards a pair of placid doors to the right of the bar. “You’ll fin’ the goods behin’ the first door on yer left. ‘Tis a bit heavier than a snapbag, though, so feel free to call me if you need any ‘elp from Ol’ Snap.”

 

“...Tch,” Fuyuhiko grunted as he turned towards the indicated doors. The man had pretty much fulfilled his use, but the yakuza heir could not bring himself to kill him. He felt that the dealer was the type to go out laughing in spite of his circumstances - those ones were never worth killing.

 

_--_--_

 

He hadn’t known what to expect, really, when he opened that door. The situation was already so bizarre, he felt he should be open to every possibility.

 

It turned out that mentally preparing himself had been a good move.

 

It had meant he was numb to the terror and surprise he might have felt under other circumstances whilst staring at the thing that had been dubiously dubbed ‘the package’.

 

It wasn’t, in fact, a package at all. It was more like a coffin.

 

Its length took up most of the width of the small room; in fact, its dimensions were fairly human-sized. The material it was made of seemed to be, at a glance, some sort of lightweight alloy or reinforced version of aluminium. An incomprehensible matrix of fat wires trailed from the metal box to the charging ports scattered around the room’s perimeter.

 

Fuyuhiko stepped hesitantly towards the metal box, but Peko abruptly cut past him.

 

“Young master, I urge you to stay back whilst I open - “

 

Fuyuhiko shot out a hand to grasp Peko’s arm, stopping her instantly. “No. We’re opening it together. That’s an order.”

 

Clear reluctance framed Peko’s expression, but she relented at Fuyuhiko’s insistence. The pair then picked their way over the wires until they were close enough to the box to touch it.

 

Fuyuhiko frowned at the box’s surface, which contained a touch panel crammed full of nonsensical commands. He spotted amongst them a large icon labelled  ‘RELEASE’ .

 

“I’m guessing this is how we open the lid…” Fuyuhiko murmured as he tapped the panel.

 

Immediately, the box emitted a pneumatic hiss. Fuyuhiko and Peko rapidly grasped the edge of the lid and pushed upwards.

 

The lid swung back theatrically, and the two stepped back as a deluge of white wispy gas streamed outward, rapidly condensing against every surface it touched.

 

Once the gas had fully dissipated, the pair once again leaned over to get a better look at the box’s contents.

 

Fuyuhiko frowned as he took in the outline of a young man nestled amongst the container’s lining. Electrodes peppered his porcelain skin, left bare but for a pair of sterile-white undergarments that covered his groin.

 

“Just what kind of sick joke is this?” Fuyuhiko spluttered.

 

Peko said nothing, but stared down at the figure uneasily. Tension filled the air, having rapidly replaced the volatile gas.

 

And in the silence, the body within the box spoke.

 

“...Hajime Hinata.”

 

Fuyuhiko and Peko shared a wary glance before the semi-conscious man’s lips moved again.

 

“...My name is… Hajime Hinata...”

 

The voice was a rasping sigh, sleepy and uncertain. And yet, it was so uncannily disturbing that Fuyuhiko felt a sudden strong urge to leave the room.

 

Without warning, the man’s eyes snapped open.

 

The sight was enough to make Fuyuhiko cringe. Whilst before the man’s face had seemed passive and inert, a sudden unnatural change came about as soon as his eyes had opened. It was as though his features had bisected into two halves, each opposing the other, a kind of somatic yin-yang.

 

The right eye was a pale olive-green, tinged with uncertainty and confusion. It wavered in its socket as though wondering whether it had the right to be in there.

 

The left eye was… macabre. It was a deep red, not unlike Peko’s and yet completely unlike Peko’s. Peko’s eyes could be at once severe and full of warmth; with this eye, it was not the case. It was a completely callous red, devoid of emotion and passion. A thin scar, almost too small to notice, ran across his forehead just above the left eye.

 

The green eye fixed first on Peko, then Fuyuhiko. The yakuza flinched when he was met with that questioning stare.

 

It somehow brought forth a boiling broth of emotions that he couldn’t rationalise; fear, anger, pity, confusion and curiosity.

 

Then the heterochrome man spoke again.

  
“My name is… Hajime… Hinata… right?”


	3. chapter_three//double_helix

chapter_three//double_helix

[access:archive_14//suzume_kamukura//entry_03]

 

The future is an interesting prospect.

 

It’s interesting precisely because no one can know what it holds.

 

It’s a fiction, really. Anything that exists in the future is a fabrication.

 

But that also means that anything is possible within the future.

 

...Why am I rambling like this? I’m the Ultimate Molecular Biologist, not the Ultimate Philosopher.

 

Perhaps this anticipation is all going to my head. The anticipation… of Izuru’s awakening, of course.

 

When Izuru awakens… the future will expand. It will be open to even more possibilities. Possibilities that were previously thought impossible.

 

That… is the future Izuru will give us. I believe it. I have to believe it with all my might.

 

I have to dispel all the doubt lingering in my mind.

 

This is our one chance. We have to trust in our luck.

 

…

 

Luck, huh.

 

Quite honestly, I can’t even speak that word without *his* face immediately coming to mind.

 

Sometimes I walk into the lab and wonder why I still keep him here. It wouldn’t be too hard to turn Yuzuki-kun against him, after all... 

 

It’s true that he’s useful as an extra hand, but it wasn’t like we were struggling before he turned up out of the blue.

 

I’ve been thinking about it, and now… only one conclusion makes sense.

 

The only reason I would defy all logic, the only reason I would allow him to stay in spite of the obvious risk he posed…

 

Well, that would be because I find him intriguing to observe.

 

...Ugh. I never thought it would come to this. Where is my professionality?

 

I have an experiment already underway, and that should be occupying my full attention. I shouldn’t be getting so distracted by a mere street urchin.

 

But as for *why* I find him so intriguing… Well, that’s difficult to answer. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s a pseudo-Ultimate, but that’s definitely part of it, at least. Otherwise, it’s his extremely abnormal behaviour.  
His mannerisms make little sense. He seems at once easy to talk to, and yet also thoroughly disturbing. I can’t decide if he’s heads, tails, or otherwise neutral. He fits somewhere outside the categories I’m used to.

 

As soon as I think I’ve grasped his purpose, he turns everything I know about him on its head.

 

Take yesterday, for example.

 

I had left the lab to go home, leaving Komaeda-san, Yuzuki-kun and a few others to finish up their various errands. I returned a few hours later, past midnight, after Yuzuki-kun (being the idiot that she is) told me she had forgotten to adjust the temperature in the stem cell bank. But anyway, after that one disaster had been narrowly averted, as I was making my way back through the lab… I noticed him.

 

He was standing before the growth capsule, simply staring in at Izuru’s amorphous foetal form, utterly intoxicated. He was so utterly engrossed with watching the developing mass of soft-bodied cells that he didn’t even greet me as I walked by.

 

I had left him to do a few simple errands; there was no way he could’ve possibly taken so long to accomplish them. That left only one possibility; that he had remained behind simply to observe Izuru.

 

I thought about telling him to go home, but I was so disturbed by the entire scene that I found myself unable to say anything.

 

And then, I wondered if it was perhaps possible whether I had just witnessed part of Komaeda-san’s daily routine. I wondered… if he stuck around each night just to watch that floating proto-human.

 

I can somewhat understand it myself. After all, the fact that Izuru even succeeded in progressing to this stage of development is absolutely amazing. Who wouldn’t be awed by the mere sight of him?

 

...Then again… He *is* supposed to be a god, isn’t he…? Perhaps the idea of devotion and worship aren’t so out of place after all.

 

As his creators, we had each distanced ourselves from the idea, but… perhaps this is simply Komaeda’s human nature.

 

Perhaps this is the first sign of even greater success to come.

 

…

 

...What am I even thinking?

 

_--_--_

 

Fuyuhiko found he couldn’t stop thinking.

 

What happened…? Why me…? Who would…?

 

His disjointed thoughts ricocheted off the walls of his skull and each other until his mind became numb to their repetitiveness, the once-words trailing off into indistinct white noise.

 

This situation didn’t make sense, and no amount of thinking would change that. So why bother?

 

The young yakuza huffed as he adjusted himself on his chair. His breath frosted in the frigid air of the safe house.

 

Just typical.

 

The odd, quasi-naked man they had found locked in a metal box had passed out once again soon after he had opened his eyes, presumably from some sort of shock. 

 

Fuyuhiko had heard that people who woke up after spending too long in an induced coma within those life-support boxes were known to faint from the unfamiliarity of their own conscious state. Perhaps that was what had happened.

 

Admittedly, Fuyuhiko had been rather relieved by it; it made transporting him discreetly to the safe house that much easier. All Peko had to do was wrap his limp body in a sack with ventilation holes and carry him over one shoulder.

 

They hadn’t been forced to explain to him that they were members of the city’s most prominent criminal gang; nor had they needed to threaten him with his life if he were to run away. Of course, they had only postponed that event rather than prevented it - but better to do it in this safe house, a territory Fuyuhiko knew well, rather than in the basement of some dodgy bar owned by a dubious organisation.

 

Fuyuhiko tsked in his usual fashion as he rose from his seat. He was restless, and the chill of the underground room wasn’t helping.

 

He didn’t want to look at the unconscious man, but he found himself doing so anyway.

 

The same unassuming features poked out from under the covers of a haphazardly arranged futon. The limp body was stretched out, slightly skewed but not spreadeagled, across the dead centre of the room. He made an oddly pathetic sight, surrounded as he was by shelves and glass cabinets of weaponry; some trafficked, others tailored, and a few stolen as obscure trophies from rival clans.

 

Fuyuhiko looked down at the other man and tsked again.

 

It was bizarre. Idiotically bizarre. Everything about this man’s face, right down to the crinkles beneath his eyelids, screamed ordinary. But he knew, the moment the man’s eyes opened… that illusion would be shattered.

 

He couldn’t get the sight of that ghastly eye out of his mind. It haunted him even whilst invisible. And not only that…

 

If anything, what the man had said in his brief moments of consciousness… that one short phrase… disturbed him even more.

 

“My name is Hajime Hinata.”

 

It had sounded as though he had been sleep-talking, though if that was the case, what sort of dream had he been having? Fuyuhiko could tell at a glance that the man was somehow psychologically traumatised - that much was obvious.

 

He had once been told that it was possible to torture someone to such an extent that they forgot everything about themselves, including their own name. The idea had fascinated him, but he had never borne witness to such an event.

 

He had seen people lose their sanity, their dignity, their pride… but he had never once seen a person lose their identity. Even as a yakuza, the thought unnerved him. To literally torture the person out of a person, to remove everything that made them unique - that would be tantamount to rewriting their entire genome.

 

Something felt profoundly wrong about such an action. It didn’t just go against the laws of society; it went against the laws of nature, too.

 

It took a few moments for Fuyuhiko to realise that he was kneeling next to the other man - this “Hajime Hinata”, if his sleep-speech was to be believed - and staring, staring ever closer at this… phenomenon.

 

Was he feeling sympathy for this man? Or was it fear?

 

Everything was vague, indistinct. Nothing made sense.

 

The unconscious man’s eyelids fluttered open.

 

Fuyuhiko’s instant reaction was to jump to his feet and shove his hands in his suit pockets - a rehearsed expression of nonchalance. He turned his face away from the other’s; he had no desire to see that eye again.

 

The rustle of sheets sounded as the heterochrome sat up rapidly, twisting wildly as he awoke to his cold, confusing reality.

 

“W-where -”

 

“A safe house under the ownership of the Kuzuryuu clan,” Fuyuhiko interrupted. He decided he may as well not beat about the bush here; the quicker their situation was established, the quicker the man would talk. Or so he hoped.

 

“Kuzuryuu clan?!” Fuyuhiko could practically hear the man’s eyes widening. “Y-you mean -”

 

“No, bastard,” Fuyuhiko spat, “the Kuzuryuu clan of friendly family grocers.”

 

The sarcasm clearly threw the other man off. Fuyuhiko used the sudden rift in the conversation to continue uninterrupted. “You’re official property of the Kuzuryuu clan now, bastard. Don’t even think about running away unless you want to lose all of your fucking fingers.”

 

It was a tired line. There was something inherently Hollywood about it that irritated Fuyuhiko to no end, even though it was dead serious. 

 

Still, it had the desired effect; the man spoke in a more subdued tone, the panic pushed towards the edges of his words.

 

“You… are you going to sell me on to someone?”

 

Fuyuhiko felt the other’s eyes on him and resisted the urge to look. “Why the fuck would I want to sell you? You aren’t a pretty young chick, and you probably aren’t very useful for ransom either.” He huffed.

 

“Then… why?”

 

There was a hint of demand in the other man’s tone, which only served to deepen the yakuza’s irritation.

 

“Tch! I was hoping you’d know the answer to that, you fucking coolbox freak,” Fuyuhiko growled. 

 

There was no answer.

 

Fuyuhiko, after steeling his nerves, spun around and bore down on the other man, glaring unflinchingly into his heterochromia. Fuyuhiko attempted with all his might to ignore the macabre red in his left visual field. “Right, bastard -”

 

The man seemed suddenly bewildered. “Um… is that real…?” he murmured, hesitant. He was clearly aware that he was treading on thin ice - and yet he continued to skate regardless.

 

It took a full second for Fuyuhiko to realise that the subject in question was his eyepatch. “O-of course it is! What do you take me for, you fucking cunt?!” he spluttered, immediately grabbing for his captive’s collar, only to snatch his hand back as his fingers grasped bare flesh and bone.

 

Clothes. He had forgotten about those.

 

In an obviously desperate attempt to save face, Fuyuhiko stomped over to where Peko had left a pile of neatly folded garments, picked up straight from the safe house’s locker, and dumped them angrily at his captive’s feet. “Stop talking and put those on,” he ordered.

 

The man clearly wasn’t stupid enough to try his luck a second time, so he did as he was told.

 

Fuyuhiko sat down heavily, his scowl deepening. He wasn’t entirely sure why this man angered him so much - he had received cheek from prisoners plenty of times before. It was easy to deal with; men were so much more respectful with nine fingers and a bleeding stump. Sometimes it didn’t even have to come to that; Reserves, after all, were fucking cowards.

 

But this man… He didn’t seem to hold himself the way a Reserve would. Just from watching, Fuyuhiko could tell that much. He was far too observant; his gaze lingered on each of the objects in the room longer than it normally would. Of course, that was hardly conclusive, but still…

 

Fuyuhiko had been unpleasantly surprised when Peko had shown the results of her DNA swab to him, not long after they had arrived at the safe house. The genome never lies, proclaimed the Administration’s mantra. And while Fuyuhiko didn’t doubt that, he still didn’t want to believe that they had gambled their very lives for a Reserve. A Reserve. A completely ordinary, talentless human being, who was largely of no use to anyone. Well, of course, they served menial duties, but other than that, what use were they?

 

How could something like that possibly save the Kuzuryuu family?

 

At first, Fuyuhiko had cursed himself for falling for such an obvious rip-off. That bastard, that piss-swilling dealer, had pulled a stunt on him, just to show him up. Fuyuhiko had imagined his greasy, mottled grin and thought about pulling his teeth out one by one.

 

But the more he thought about it, the less that made sense. What of the heterochrome’s performance? Surely no-one would go so far as to fake a coma just to make a banal point about their own ego. Even a Reserve, surely, wouldn’t be so desperate.

 

Fuyuhiko shook his head. Ugh. All this thinking was threatening to drive him insane.

 

Perhaps it really was a trap. He regretted dismissing Peko - dealing with captives was always easier with her by his side. Or anything, for that matter.

 

But the rest of his family - his father, mother, and younger sister - all needed to know about this. If there was even the slightest chance, however small, that this man could be their salvation, they needed to know.

 

Salvation. The word made Fuyuhiko’s skin itch. What had happened to the once-great Kuzuryuu clan to make them so reliant on a mere individual?

 

Fuyuhiko looked up, noticing that the individual in question was staring at him.

 

“Er… are you alright…?”

 

Fuyuhiko cocked an eyebrow. “Save your sweet talk, bastard. You’re not leaving unless I tell you to. Understand?”

 

“I understand.” The man smiled sheepishly as he sat back down on the futon, pulling self-consciously at the sleeves of the crisp suit.

 

Fuyuhiko narrowed his eyes. “Okay. It’s time to talk. First, tell me exactly who the fuck you are.”

 

“...My name is Hajime Hinata.” Again, that odd hesitance in the way he pronounced his name, as though each syllable were unfamiliar.

 

“And what were you doing in that coolbox, huh?”

 

“I…” Hajime scratched the back of his head; it was obvious he was unwilling to answer. “...I don’t know.”

 

“Bullshit. Tell me what you were doing, bastard, or I’ll fucking beat you senseless. I can wait ‘til you’re out of a second coma, no big deal.”

 

“W-well… in all honesty, I’m not actually sure.” Hajime’s expression was odd, somewhere between a frown and a grimace. “I just remember…”

 

He had abruptly trailed off. His eyes were fixed, his pupils dialated, tunnels. His body vibrated all over.

 

His next words came out as a rasp, little louder than a whisper. “I… I can… I can see… them…”

 

“Huh? Don’t go batshit on me now, bastard!” Fuyuhiko immediately reached out to grab Hajime’s arm, but his limbs were already flailing wildly. The yakuza grunted as he was backhanded on the cheek.

 

Hajime seemed to be attempting to crawl away from something; his body spasmed against the floor. He struggled to his feet only to collapse again from the panic in his own muscles. He lashed out whenever Fuyuhiko touched him, so the yakuza first assumed the heterochrome must be running from him… Except, his movements were far too aimless and erratic, and he kept glancing over his shoulder, as though there was someone there visible only to him.

 

“No… please… please please please please please… don’t… please don’t…!”

 

Fuyuhiko had heard those exact words, those frantic, frenzied, pathetic pleas, countless times - but only from people on the receiving end of torture. This reaction went beyond confusing; Fuyuhiko had barely done anything to the man yet, aside from threaten and interrogate him. But this was -

 

Hajime screamed, covering his face with his hands as his legs kicked out in all directions. Fuyuhiko fought to pin him down, gripping his forearms whilst straddling his thighs, and still the heterochrome struggled, struggled to push Fuyuhiko away, struggled to escape…

 

“Hinata! What the fuck -” Fuyuhiko was cut off as Hajime’s elbow smacked into his nose, leaving him reeling. He gasped. Unlike the other wild blows, that one had clearly been controlled - deliberate. It seemed Hajime was intent on fighting back after all.

 

Hajime had stopped screaming. It had all stopped as abruptly as it had started. The heterochrome was still on the floor, but his body had noticeably relaxed. He straightened up in a single motion, fluid and soundless.

 

Fuyuhiko met his eyes, and immediately regretted doing so.  
A profound change had come over Hajime’s expression. It seemed… darker, somehow; shadowed, malevolent. That horrible red eye was no longer passive; whereas before it seemed threatening but inert, now it seemed to actually see him - or rather, see right through him. In contrast, the heterochrome’s green eye appeared to sink further back into his skull, receding, swallowed by his own anatomy.

 

“Don’t touch me.” The voice was bored, dispassionate; quiet, yet utterly profound.

 

Fuyuhiko felt as though he was shrinking into himself. He had never, not once, felt so utterly helpless - so afraid. Fear was not taught in the Kuzuryuu household; in fact, it was forbidden. But Fuyuhiko could not deny his urge to run and hide, his animalistic desire for self-preservation.

 

He felt as though he was in the presence of a god.

 

“Hinata is not my name,” the heterochrome continued in the same detached monotone. “Do not insult me with it.”

 

Fuyuhiko struggled to his feet. “H-huh?! What is this, you freak? You schizo or somethin’?!” It was the only thing he could think of.

 

The red eye regarded him coolly. “Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu,” he murmured. “The Ultimate Yakuza, am I correct?”

 

Fuyuhiko hesitated. There was no way Hajime could possibly know his name, let alone his Ultimate title. He attempted to voice this, but he couldn’t push the words through his constricted throat.

 

The heterochrome sighed. “Yakuza, huh. It seems they’ll consider anything a talent these days. How utterly disappointing.”

 

“You - What did you say!?” Fuyuhiko snarled.

 

The red eye wavered from Fuyuhiko, taking a muted interest in the weaponry stashed along the walls. He didn’t grimace - not quite - but his expression was still unequivocally disgusted.

 

“So you’re a criminal. You’re the heir to the Kuzuryuu empire. You can fight, you can use a gun, you can kill people, you can manipulate and threaten others for information. Anyone could do that. It’s nothing exceptional.”

 

Fuyuhiko felt an absence within himself. Ordinarily, he would already be upon this guy by now, beating him into a pulp for merely suggesting that his Ultimate talent was “unexceptional”. But his fear reigned him back, his fear kept him rooted. He was caged, leashed.

 

“Who… just who the fuck are you?!” Fuyuhiko demanded.

 

Slowly, frighteningly slowly, that redness turned on him again. It was such a pure scarlet - redder even than blood - so concentrated, Fuyuhiko felt that a single drop of it could kill. Just observing the colour made him queasy.

 

“Who am I? I represent humanity’s true Hope.” He put such an emphasis on the word that Fuyuhiko felt it must have been intended to be capitalised. “My name is Izuru Kamukura.”

 

“Just… just stop! Stop talking bullshit!” Fuyuhiko found himself stepping backwards with each word he spoke. “‘Humanity’s true Hope’? What the fuck does that even mean?!”

 

“I would not expect a criminal to understand.” Izuru didn’t move a single centimetre, but Fuyuhiko continued to edge backwards. “To feel hope is to feel despair. One cannot exist without acknowledging the other. Therefore, they are one and the same.” Izuru sighed. “The same demon visits again, this time under a different guise. But, alas, humanity does not recognise the inevitable truth. There is no hope for them. And therefore no despair.”

 

“What… what…?” Fuyuhiko could only repeat that single word over and over as tears distorted his vision.

 

Izuru’s voice was slow, as though he were attempting to communicate with an infant. “They have nothing. Nothing, you understand? They are empty shells, husks, blank pieces of paper. So much potential, but sullied at its very core. However, you cannot change a human’s mind… Not unless you eradicate it.”

 

Izuru was motionless, but Fuyuhiko knew exactly what he was planning to do. He had seen the same expression before, many times, the first time when he was just three years old: the expression of a kidnapper backed into a corner.

 

But Izuru wasn’t doing this out of desperation. He wasn’t doing it for any reason at all; rather, he was the act. It was the one thing he existed to do.

 

That red-eyed stare, Fuyuhiko realised, was the stare of Death itself.

 

Still Fuyuhiko retreated, noticing the slight tension in Izuru’s muscles, the all-too-familiar motions -

 

Izuru collapsed forwards, a river of claret abruptly gushing from his forehead.

 

Peko stood behind him, her sword raised in its bag, her face tense, her eyes wide.

 

“Young master, are you alright?”

 

Fuyuhiko sunk to his knees, unwilling to meet the expectant gazes of Peko, his mother, his father, and Natsumi.

 

He was dead, for sure.


End file.
